Speak
by Nuwanda Darcy
Summary: It has been forty years since Satine has died. Now in England, Christian visits wounded soldiers. He comes across a certain lad, one that merely mumbles. Drawn toward the boy's story, he finds true love again in a different way. CROSS OVER WITH ATONEMENT.
1. Chapter 1

Speak

Disclaimer: I do not own Moulin Rouge! or Atonement, period. I just love both with all my heart.

He had been given one more chance, one more last time to live. Somehow, he had survived it all: the excruciating hardship of training, the physical enemy whom you must fight until the end and of course the number of times you meet death face to face. Yet, there was one thing that he could not win: his own self. I had visited men who shamefully spoke of their times at war. They would stare at the floor with a tin cup filled with water. Tears would run down their haggard and wind beaten faces their bleeding lips barely moving. I had met men who had gone crazy, thrashing and screaming with their might, as if they could bring back the dead they had killed. But the worse cases among all were the silent ones. They would lie in their beds, staring at the ceiling. Most of them died before anyone could identify who they once were, what title they bore in life. Others would be condemned to abed for eternity, never to speak again.

This boy, this mere lad of twenty hardly spoke at all. He instead, lay, mumbling an inaudible and confusing language that only he could understand. Occasionally, he would speak barely above a whisper, but that was it. I had been reading to him. He never seemed to be listening, but I pressed on forward. Perhaps, I rationalized, with a few simple words I could save him. I started with Wuthering Heights, a somewhat safe, but moving story of love and betrayal. He showed no emotion. Yet, after just finishing the scene between Catherine and Heathcliff before she died, did I catch a brief spark of life. Tiny beads of tears were trailed down his eyes, mingling with his scruffy bread. His eyes darted briefly to me before mumbling, barely above a whisper, "Cecilia."

I later started upon a more controversial and heavily reviewed love story. I thought it somewhat foolish, especially the narrator. He had a naïve and narrow view of life, which according to him revolved around love. If only I could meet the narrator and warn him of what life truly held. Once again the boy at first showed no emotion. He merely lay, mumbling words barely above a whisper. He merely lay speaking to himself in that invented foreign tongue. "The greatest thing you'll ever learn, is just to love and be loved in return," I finished softly before shutting the book. The ending was cheesy too.

The boy blinked in response.

"Son?" I asked, clasping his frozen hand.

He blinked again.

"Son?" I said a little louder. My heart raced; perhaps my words had helped after all?

The boy moved his head slightly, his hair leaving trails of grease behind on the pillow case. The dirt accumulated from the lack of baths, smudged against his shrunken cheeks. His blank eyes gazed into my own with steady confidence. "Shame," he whispered. I paused, barely able to comprehend what was happening.

"Shame, live without shame," he whispered again, his eyes crinkling in emotion. I continually stayed frozen. The boy had something to say.

"Read," he croaked, his voice cracking from the lack of use. He jerked his head toward the nightstand. Unsure, I hesitantly opened the drawer. Inside was a pack of letters with a postcard, concerning a house by the beach, on top. I held them up to his eyes and he nodded in confirmation. With as much dexterity as a surgeon removing shrapnel, I took the bottom letter from the pile. The handwriting was a scrawl that spoke of aristocracy and arrogance. I cleared my throat.

"My dearest…"


	2. Chapter 2

And He Was Robbie

I remember the day she died; I remembered every bit of it. The irony of the pure white she wore on her supposed wedding day. The ruby lust of the red petals that showered down on her, each one had fluttered onto her like beads of rain. The sobbing foolish boy who thought a simple song could fix the world. I spent days locked away in my own room, battling with craze and blinded sorrow. Yet, here, after years of quiet exile, I had found a gift. It was as if my own penance was being lay before me, calling me to help another tear-driven lad out of the dark.

"Come back to me," I read, "Cecil…"

"Don't," the boy croaked, holding up a thin hand.

He hated it when I ever spoke her name, the forbidden name, Cecilia Tallis. When I first read her name, he appeared somewhat cheerier. Tinges of color had crept into his face, and his eyes shone slightly with affection. I left with too a smile upon my face, thinking that I had done some good. Yet, upon my next visit, I was summoned to the head Ward Sister's office. Her eyes narrowed slightly before swiftly explaining that upon my exit the following week, the boy had suffered from several emotional breakdowns and had thrown many fits.

"I deeply wish that this is merely a coincidence," she hinted, her mouth tightening.

"Ma'am?" I shuddered inwardly.

The Ward sister dangerously leaned forward.

" This better not happen again, sir. Tears and cursing I can stand, but sobbing and screams at night? Hitting nurses?" she shook her head in disbelief, "That is inexcusable. If this is to continue, than Patient Turner may be taken away."

Silence fell heavily.

"Taken away," I repeated quietly, beads of sweat on my brow.

"Yes, taken away. I presume you understand what that means?" the Nurse hinted.

I nodded, tugging at my collar.

" Sir, are you alright? You look rather, warm," the Nurse sweetly queried.

I vigorously shook my head; this woman was…

"Good," she finished, before dismissing me with a hand.

I fell out of the office, barely able to breath. Gagging on my spit, I fell to the ground.

Taken away? What a pretty euphemism for being locked away in an insane asylum. Shakily, I passed a hand across my mouth. What did this nurse not understand? Why was that precious boy so cursed? Was he to be alone, like me? Was he to hang on the weak threads of a past moment for the rest of his life?

Gasping air, I picked myself up. No, he shouldn't be condemned to such a life. I stood as an example of lost love. I stood as an example of the past, a living dead wanderer. Now was my time, to bring it back. Time to rein that lost love, even if it wasn't to be mine. This time, the story will be a happy ending. This time, the prince and the princess will live happily, and I as, Merlin, the wise old timer. That boy, Robbie, will meet Cecilia. I will give them that moment in the library. I will present them the future they wanted. It will be theirs.

"Robbie," I quietly asked, as I gingerly placed the letters back in their place.

"What?" he answered.

He had gained his speech back, but he only spoke when necessary. For the rest of the time, it was only nods and shakes.

"What was her full name?"

Shaking his head, Robbie turned away with hard determination. Refusing to look at me, he stared away at the rows of beds. I waited.

"Robbie, please," I begged, clutching my hands.

He merely shook his head again.

" You said her name before," I pointed out.

" That was then, when I didn't have my mind in place," he replied softly.

" Please?" I pleaded again.

"No."

"Why?"

"Pain."


End file.
